


Lesson One

by bookhousegirl



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Matt Grzelcyk/Charlie McAvoy, Boston Bruins, Complicated Relationships, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhousegirl/pseuds/bookhousegirl
Summary: The life and times of Jake DeBrusk. Dreamer, lover, hockey player, best friend, boyfriend, not necessarily in that order.





	Lesson One

**Author's Note:**

> I had this little idea about hot mess Jake DeBrusk back in December. Who knew I had 12k of Jake DeBrusk feelings? I haven't written a fic in over a year, and this was extremely challenging for me. But I really wanted to do one more (last?) fic about players on the Bruins. If you check this out, I hope you like it.
> 
> Many thanks to my stalwart lineys mumble and glatisant, for their cheering, handholding, and friendship over the years in this fandom.
> 
> Title from the original title for a-ha's hit song Take on Me, according to this thing I read in Rolling Stone.

 

 

Growing up in a household where Jake’s father played NHL hockey, dreams took hold early.

There were the same ones that every kid in Canada had, of that flash of glory, with teammates piled next to him on the bench as the seconds ticked down on the jumbotron. The one that ended with a skate around the ice, the Cup high above his head. It wasn’t foretold that he would be a hockey player. But he liked to think it was ingrained in him, in his DNA, to be the same thing as his dad, and that made him happy.

They were there, scratching at the surface, when he was drafted by the Bruins. By the time he went to dev camp the first summer, he met guys who were, in a word, _elite,_ who could skate faster, who had a hell of a shot. Guys named Heinen and Fitzgerald and Vatrano and Donato. And Torey Krug gave them all a speech, you’re not better than this guy, this other guy’s not much better than you, so it can all be gone in a flash if you didn’t make the most of your chances. He was valuable, sure. A first rounder no matter if critics liked to say that he went ten spots too early at number fourteen. They were all good prospects, and these days the difference between a first rounder and a fifth didn’t mean shit if the fifth rounder was still playing in the NHL and the first was trying to string some decent seasons together over in the Swedish League. Step up. Or someone will step up in your place.

Anders was the kind of fifth rounder that made Jake think scouting must be a total bullshit exercise or that Torey Krug was definitely a genius, when Anders had an incredible sense of where to find him on the ice and a sweet backhand move and a happy, open face that made Jake want to wait and do things right so they had every shot to make it together. He enjoyed the stupid rowing exercise mostly for seeing Anders’ long, tanned legs against a pair of white shorts, and suggested hanging out in the bleachers at a Sox game and watching every Fast and Furious movie followed by pancakes in the ghostlit fog of dawn at a twenty-four hour diner, too excited to be worried about giving himself away. It was simple to skate over after the three-on-threes and say, “Sick move, man,” so Jake did, and Anders smiled and replied, “You too,” and after that they were inseparable.

At the South Street Diner, with its dingy floors and kitschy 1940s movie vibe, Anders had just put away a short stack and a huge plate of home fries. He knocked his knee against Jake’s under the formica counter. “How did you even find this place?”

Jake shrugged and said, “Just wandered around. It’s friendly, but also kind of secret? Nobody gives a fuck who anybody is. Like I can come here and just be myself,” and he pushed his knee back against Anders’ and kept it there.

“I like it a lot,” Anders said after they paid, almost as if he was saying something else, and with a squeeze of Jake’s shoulder, they wandered out into the morning together.

***

That first year, of all the fucking stupid things, he failed the fitness and conditioning test, slipping on the third and final run.

“I’ll be ready,” he professed, the next year, after the media wanted to write him off as less than worthy. “For the rest of my life.” And that was just a statement, not an overstatement at all.

Training that summer was brutal, but he listened to the advice of his dad, listened to Don Sweeney in his head, telling him he had more talent than most of the guys but he had to do what it took to get him there. He traded texts through those long months with Senyshyn and Matt and Anders too, and played video games with them, and saved the photos Anders would send, of himself on a boat, goofing with his kid brother, and a coppery sunset that made his hair look like fire.

Swift Current was the same. A perpetual life of junior hockey and the rare movie at the cineplex with his friends, the same fun hard-working guys of the last three years. It was inevitable though, that he went to bed at night, and pictured a boat on a blue lake where he’d never been, or the brilliant skyline of Boston from the harbor, where he promised himself he’d go soon.

***

The next draft year brought more guys to the pipeline. That was the way it went. Younger guys. More talented guys. Hungrier guys.

They had someone else in their crew now, with a fresh baby face and adorable cheeks and a mouth so full and red it looked like Charlie had been punched or kissed. Not to mention the untapped, seemingly limitless potential on the ice. And everyone loved Charlie.

“Charlie Mac!” he shouted, too loudly, that first day, when Matt was spearheading the introductions. “I’ve heard about you nonstop!”

“Awesome!” Charlie said with a laugh and a high-five. “Can’t wait to get some shifts together, man.”

“You really have to be the most enthusiastic fucker out there.” Anders hip checked him as they made their way to the weight room to watch guys do the pullups and the vertical leaps.

For once it wasn’t about enthusiasm though, or getting to know guys, or any of the other things that teams preached at camp. In the most corporeal sense, Charlie McAvoy made him feel winning. From every push of his legs that took him down the ice, every flick of his wrist to get off a pass, every stick-battle in front of the net that resulted in his helmet being knocked askew, or the sting of a blade on his face, it was all coming together and the restocking of the blue line was a huge piece. When they were in a huddle, talking out a play during scrimmage, or celebrating another head-turning goal, he looked to Charlie, and found himself beaming helplessly. Hockey, _this kind of hockey,_ was so fun.

“Chucky wants ice cream,” Matt told them, as they stood around in the sun after the last scrimmage, the last speech, on the last day of development camp. Lunch had been on the table too, and maybe taking a drive to a beach where Jake had been promised, multiple times, that the water would be too cold for swimming even in June.

“Ice cream sounds amazing,” he said, putting his fist out for a bump from Charlie.

Anders made a noise of protest. “Dude you were literally saying five minutes ago that you would die if you didn’t have diner pancakes. I got myself psyched up for blueberry. Way to crush a man, JD.”

“You can have ice cream and then pancakes, right?” Jake turned back to Matt. “So Emack and Bolio’s or what?”

Matt fiddled with his sunglasses and said, “Nah, there’s this place out in Belmont he likes. It’s got fancy flavors and these awesome homemade waffle cones. It’s kind of the wrong way for you guys, if you were gonna head to the beach or whatever.”

“Let’s do it! I’m buying!” Jake proclaimed.

Charlie laughed at that. “Classy man, Jake DeBrusk. I like it.”

“You’ll learn,” Anders explained. “He’s a natural born show off. That’s all.” And he seized Jake’s hand and pulled him to the car.

At the shop, which was clean and cheery, with a modern neon sign and buttercup walls, Jake watched Matt get something green that he said wasn’t mint chip and Charlie order honey lavender in the waffle cone. “I’ll try that too,” he told the lady, forsaking his usual coffee flavor, and ignored Anders making a face.

“Let me try yours,” he said to Anders, and when Matt and Charlie were safely outside on the sidewalk, he took an obscene lick. It was less cloying and obvious than plain vanilla and he asked, “What is that? It’s amazing.”

“You should’ve waited til I ordered and copied me and not Charlie,” Anders said, and cheerily dropped his arm around Jake’s shoulders as they exited. “I’m from Wisconsin. I know about good ice cream. You can come visit me some summer, and I’ll take you to a place that’ll blow your fucking mind.”

Months later, when Charlie was back at BU, and Anders felt like a lifetime away out in Indiana, when the weather was almost too cool for it, he snuck back to Belmont alone, and ordered the simplest of flavors, sweet cream, like Anders had. He could have invited Matt to go too, he had never really thought of that. Instead he sat at one of the little tables in the shop, which was always quiet on a random Tuesday afternoon, scrolling through his social media, content to enjoy his ice cream and be in his own head. His first big step, that first taste of professional hockey, down in Providence, seemed so much sweeter just like this.

***

The next year they made the jump. Him, Heino, Matt, Charlie of course. And Anders. They were there on the ice with him for his first NHL game, where he almost cried through the anthem of a country that wasn’t his, where he scored his first goal on a beautiful set up and watched his dad weep in the stands.

It was barely a week later when he threaded a sweet pass to Anders and was there, to grab him in a ferocious hug, to scream “Yeah baby!” in his face when Anders scored his own first NHL goal.

They were making noise and the change-fearing, tradition-oriented city of Boston was listening hard.

“This’ll be fun,” said Anders as they walked over to the lounge where NHL TV had set up a spot for them, the Bruins’ young guns, to play NHL18 in threes mode.

The camera guy was setting up and explained, “We need one of you to do a little intro and tell everybody who you are and what you’re doing.” He looked between Jake and Anders and Charlie and Brandon.

“You should do it.” Anders nodded at him.

Charlie settled next to Brandon, because apparently it was the D against the wingers, and echoed, “Yeah you should do it. You’re great at stuff like this.”

That made Jake feel lit up on the inside, so he positioned himself on the end. No one ever accused Jake DeBrusk of lacking enthusiasm, so he made a good show of it. “Me and Anders are on the same team, we’ve got good chemistry, and we’re looking for a victory over these guys.” At that pronouncement Anders gave him a subtle eyebrow raise.

Somehow, despite the chemistry on the ice and elsewhere, they lost and Brandon and Charlie won. He was thrown off by Charlie always being in everybody’s space. Jake stared at Charlie, crashing his body thoughtlessly into Brandon’s while wearing those ridiculous hipster glasses when they scored. Anders stared at him staring.

“What’s up with all that?” Anders asked him, thumbing in the direction of Charlie, who was leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed and hip splayed out while he chatted with the camera guy who was packing up.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know about the glasses.” Jake leaned up against the wall too.

“You guys in for lunch?” Charlie proposed, coming over after the crew had gone. “I’m gonna call Gryz. Meet back up in twenty?” He and Brandon disappeared somewhere and Jake sat and toyed with his shoes. When he stood up, Anders was staring again.

“So we’ve got good chemistry?” he asked.

“I saw your little look you did with your face.” Jake waved his hand in the general direction of Anders’ face. “I wasn’t lying, was I?”

“No, I didn’t think you were. I was just surprised you said it like that. In front of everyone.”

And his eyes were all hooded and dark. _Bedroom eyes,_ Jake thought without knowing what that meant right before he pushed Anders against the wall and pressed his body close and kissed Anders' neck and then his mouth. It was soft, much softer than he imagined, and he gasped into it. There were still times where he felt like that kid from growing up, a late bloomer and far too small for the game, even though his dad was huge and his mom kept telling him not to worry, _you’ll grow_. Pinning Anders like this, bracketing him with his arms, made him feel taller or bigger, even though they were the same height, the same weight, the same everything.

“What was that about?” Anders asked when Jake had to pull back because his heart was beating out of chest and he was getting hard and they were supposed to be going out to eat with their friends, even though it was the very last thing he wanted to do now.

“Did you not want me to?” Jake didn’t kiss him again, but pressed their foreheads together, like he did on the ice after Anders scored his first goal.

“I guess you just surprised me with that too.”

Jake was honestly surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. But he didn’t say so. Instead he joked, “Sorry. Are you the kind of guy who has to wait to know each other, what, more than two years, before we can finally make out?”

Anders smiled at that. “Right. Do you even know my hometown?” When Jake had to legitimately stop and think, Anders threw his head back in a laugh. “Okay, and what’s Chuck’s hometown?”

“Long Island?” He wasn’t totally sure if that counted, but it sounded right.

“That’s not a town.” Anders reached into the pocket of his shorts and checked his phone, presumably for a text from Charlie. “You should learn my hometown, JD, if you’re going to kiss me like that.”

“I will,” Jake promised. “I’ll learn everything about you.”

They kissed a few more times after that, off and on. It became one of their things that Jake liked, along with the way that Anders grabbed the frost blue gatorade for him after morning skate, the way he would tickle Jake’s side right before going to talk to fucking Joe Haggerty, and Jake would shriek with laughter. They could do this with their bodies and it was uncomplicated. A proxy for words that meant they were good together, plain and simple.

Jake smiled a little dreamily sometimes in the locker room or when waiting against the boards for line rushes at practice. Charlie would catch his eye and nod, and Jake would look happily over at him too, expansive and bright. The world was their oyster now.

***

With a team so full of young talent, it was impossible not to think of the other side of the oyster. The injuries, the healthy scratches, the missed opportunities. Trades. Potential could be sky-high, or just as quickly sunk to the ocean floor. Look at Joe Morrow. Look at Jimmy. Jake tried not to, even when those thoughts dangled there sometimes, a loose thread amongst the tidy stitches.

“So,” he said, spreading his hands out in front of him on the table. “Obviously winning the Cup is the first thing everybody thinks about. Let’s just all agree we’re going to do that and do it together. But after that. Whaddya got, and not the stuff you say to reporters.”

“What, like the Hart Trophy? Norris?” asked Matt, not looking at him. The menu was literally twenty-five pages of food, and Matt thumbed through it studiously, like he wanted to confer about every possible option.

“Sure. I mean like whatever. Just for fun. It doesn’t jinx anything if you say it just for fun.”

Matt was thoughtful. “I’d like to have a good career. Honestly!” he cried when Jake made a face. “I’m not gonna be the kind of guy who has all the accolades like the rest of you. That’s why I finished college. The Bs took a chance on me. So I’d like to play for as long as I can. I know I’m lucky.”

“Let’s all agree we want long, prosperous careers.” Jake nodded at Matt to placate him. “So after that.”

Matt put down his menu and laughed. “Well after that, I think I’m all set.”

“I wish I had won a national championship.” Anders gave Jake a look, like Jake should be happy someone was still playing along.

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

This was starting to sound like that scene in Miracle. “No. No going back in time,” he decided. “You all can’t win national championships. You wouldn’t have even been on the same team.”

“Well, we would’ve,” said Matt, with a nod towards Charlie. “We were. On the same team then and on the same team now.” A smile was spreading across his normally serious face.

“It’s pretty awesome that it happened that way. You know, I think my answer is the same as Matt’s. I feel lucky to be here. There’s all this noise out there about what we are, and what we’ll be. I hope I get to prove myself and stay and have a good career.” Charlie took a long sip of water.

“You sound like I’m Fluto or Amalie Benjamin.”

“Sorry JD,” laughed Anders. “I wanted to win the Hobey Baker, I guess.”

“I wanted to win the Beanpot,” Charlie chimed in.

“I won it,” Matt shrugged, and Charlie snorted and shoved him in the booth.

“Oh come on!” Charlie looked across the table at Jake and Anders, as if they didn’t know what he was talking about. “He scored the goal in OT to win the Beanpot that year.”

Matt threw up his hands. “What the hell, I’m not bragging when he’s the one who brought up the Hobey Baker!” He pointed at Anders, who cracked up too.

“You guys are unbelievable.” Jake sighed exaggeratedly. He rested his arm along the ledge of the booth and felt Anders lean back, his hair soft against Jake’s arm. “The future is bright. And it’s happening right now. So let’s just get some fucking cheesecake, eh?” and everybody momentarily shut up about college hockey to talk about whether they were chocolate flavor or regular cheesecake people instead.

They wandered around the Pru for a while afterwards, and he was light and glad watching Anders try on oversized sunglasses that actually made him look even hotter, listening to Charlie and Matt talk about who had responsibility with their grocery list this week.

As Anders stood in line to pay for the sunglasses, Jake poked his arm. “Hey. Just so I’m clear here. I’m not an asshole for what I said, am I?” He genuinely wanted to know and he trusted Anders' dry and unadulterated assessment. “There’s nothing actually _wrong_ with wanting to win, right? And wanting to be the best you can be while you’re here? You don’t think in Sidney Crosby’s first year in the league he was like oh, I’m the phenom they’ve talked about since I was fourteen but I hope I can just have a ‘nice career.’”

Anders handed his bank card to the sales associate and leaned against the counter. “No. But that’s not what they’re saying either. Things are really definite in your mind. Other people,” and here he tilted his head towards Matt, who was checking out BU ties at the kiosk just outside the storefront, “might not always feel as sure about their place. Sometimes it feels safer to want it less. To tell yourself something else.”

“Maybe I should’ve played in college,” Jake mused.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Come on. Cut it out. It’s not some club that we all joined and you were purposefully left out.”

“Well you can say that! _You_ played in college!”

“I don’t know where any of this is coming from, so I don’t know what you want me to say.” Anders kicked Jake’s leg to make his point.

“You would’ve wanted me as a teammate in college right?”

“I can’t believe I need to say this. But yes. I would’ve wanted you as a teammate in college, and I want you as a teammate now.”

Jake smiled and was pleased that he got the compliment, despite having to press for it. “I would’ve wanted you too,” he confessed. “You were a college star, just like your dad.”

“And he played one minor league season of pro hockey, while your dad was an NHL star. So what do you think that means?”

“Nothing.” Jake shook his head. “Absolutely nothing,” he repeated, and he looked ahead of them to see Matt and Charlie walking in sync like they’d been following each other for years, tracing the same path in their lives until it was simply part of them.

***

If you asked Jake how it was going, which lots of people did, all the time, it was going.

Most days it was unreal and unbelievable and all the other superlatives he threw out that night he was drafted down in Florida. When his mom called at 7:30, as she did when there wasn’t a game, she told him about running into his third grade teacher Mrs. Fennessey at the grocery store, and how they shared how proud they were of him over stalks of asparagus and bulbous heads of cauliflower.

Jake wiped his forehead and tried not to think of how embarrassing third grade was for him in general, other than hockey. He told his mom about the bus ride from the airport on the Vegas trip and how he saw a guy dressed like Superman outside the arena, with two kids dangling from his arms while people snapped photos on their phones.

“Anything else new?”

“Nope. Everything’s awesome,” he responded, and glanced over to the couch, where Anders was using his free hand to pull the white takeout containers of Chinese food out of a plastic bag. Anders’ injury, and the subsequent surgery had been season-ending, and really _not awesome._ It had been all of the things that Jake had wished, with his fingers crossed and his eyes squeezed shut, would not happen to either of them for a long, long time. The critics had their own ideas about it too, had Anders put himself in a bad position for the hit, was this due to lack of experience at the NHL level, and Jake considered himself a lover, not a fighter, but he wanted to fucking fight those people who had never been crushed against the boards during a game.

Anders good-naturedly held up two chopsticks and waved them at Jake. “Hope you have clean forks, because I am so not gonna be able to use these.”

He waved his hand back to shush Anders and ducked down to sit on the stairs by the door. “Sorry. Anders is here and I’m just trying to cheer him up since the surgery and whatnot.”

“Oh, that’s a good thing. I’ll let you go and help out Anders then,” his mom said. “You’re a great friend. This is the kind of thing that matters most.”

Climbing the stairs again, after he told her he loved her and would talk to her soon, he felt so much better, and threw his arms around Anders when he saw their dinner laid out on the coffee table, amid the mugs half-filled with gatorade and game controllers and tv remotes. “Thanks,” Jake sighed, and breathed in the laundry-fresh smell in the crook of Anders’ neck. “You’re injured. I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

“You can help with this,” Anders suggested, offering him a fork.

They settled in on the couch and put on ESPN and Jake scooped some rice and beef and broccoli and kung pao chicken onto a quickly soggy paper plate. It was impossible not to giggle every time he sent the teetering fork towards Anders’ open mouth.

Anders grabbed some paper towels from the roll and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he complained. “It’s just food.”

“I know. It’s just your face,” Jake tried to explain. “Like you’re waiting for me.” He held out another forkful of food into the space between them, but Anders was too slow. “Oops,” he whispered as the rice fell in a small, soft avalanche onto Anders’ gym shorts.

Anders’ eyes, wide and cool grey like the wings of a baby bird, blinked back at him. And Jake couldn’t resist it, the closeness of them in the moment, the levity of it all, and Anders with an expression on his face like he _dared_ Jake to turn this into some kind of fight, food or otherwise.

Jake reached out, pressed his fingers against Anders' chin and tipped it to the side. _Perfect angle,_ he thought and kissed Anders gently, as if his lips might be as battered as his shoulder, as if everything might break if he did it wrong.

“Is that your apology?” asked Anders when Jake pulled away.

“Something like that,” Jake responded, and kissed him again. This time Anders didn’t make any protests at all, just sunk into Jake’s arms and into the kiss, like how a fishing lure lingered below the water’s surface on the end of a piece of line, the sole purpose of it to be tantalizing and devoured.

Later, after they had cleaned up and put away the leftovers in the fridge, Jake stretched out on his side in bed to check on Anders. He moved his foot next to Anders’ under the covers, and he wasn’t sure if Anders was asleep, but he felt magnitudes of gratefulness when Anders pushed back, to touch him in the dark, through the night, like a reflex.

***

Injury felt like ruin. This was something new. He had been injured before in his life. But it meant something different now. Coming back too soon could exacerbate the problem. Sitting out for too long could cause others.

“Why are we here watching? Why can’t we be playing?” he bitched in front of the cameras, before he thought better of it, when he and Charlie and Anders hung out to watch a shootout loss to the Jets. They played a few rounds of NHL18 too, and Anders bowed out and just watched. Charlie’s toes were so close to his leg where they sat, he could barely breathe and kept pressing the wrong button accidentally.

“I’m gonna head out. I’ve got PT first thing.” Anders looked expectantly at Jake.

Jake didn’t look back. “I may stay a bit. Kick this guy’s ass some more. That okay?”

Charlie didn’t look at either of them and stared straight ahead at the channel guide. “Whatever you want,” he said.

“Okay.” Anders sounded resigned and moved towards the door. “Call me later.” His hand was on the doorknob, but he didn’t go yet. Jake knew he was waiting, and sometimes there might have been that expectation, to go together. He might’ve perpetuated it, in fact. But now, good sense be damned, he wanted to stay.

After a few more games, and a show called Power, and watching Moneyball at Jake’s suggestion, Charlie turned to him and said, “I could really go for some pancakes.”

“Pancakes?”

“Yeah.” Charlie nodded. “Pancakes are my favorite.”

Jake grabbed his shoes. “I’ve got just the place.”

The diner was still bustling around 3 when they got there, and they had to stand in line behind the red rope, which made Charlie laugh and comment, “Super exclusive.”

“You know me, gotta keep it classy.”

Charlie smiled. “For sure. You always do,” he said, but his face was doing a weird thing, where his happy look didn’t match everything else. They got seats at the counter fairly quickly, and Charlie just ordered a coffee and stared at the cheesy black and white photos of Marilyn Monroe and other old Hollywood stars on the wall. And for the rest of the night, it was quiet between them. Jake couldn’t figure out why. Charlie didn’t even end up getting pancakes, which was weird when he was the one who wanted them, while Jake ordered the blueberry and a side of bacon and then a slice of pecan pie to go, which Anders always did. It was late, or maybe early, when they finally went in different directions, and Jake stumbled into bed alone, accidentally leaving his pie on the counter.

“You didn’t tell me about taking Chuck to the diner that night you guys hung out,” Anders said a couple of days later, when he came over to watch Netflix after PT. He stood in the living room with his arms crossed instead of flopping down on the couch and shedding his coat like usual. His tone was even, not giving anything away.

“I didn’t?” Jake raised his head from where he was looking under the sofa, and pulled out his phone from underneath. “Sorry, I thought I did. Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?” He had never seen Anders get really mad about anything, even that hit from Matt Martin. Anders wasn’t looking mad exactly now either, but he also wasn’t hugging Jake or tickling him or settling in with popcorn and gatorade.

“No. I’m not mad about that. It’s just -” Anders trailed off and finally started to unzip his jacket. “We’re best friends, right?”

Jake frowned. “Right.”

“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was changing. If you wanted something to change.”

“I would. But I’m the guy who doesn’t want anything to ever change. You know that about me.”

“But I also know you have this idea about life and your dreams and how it’s all going to work out. And I guess I just don’t want to end up surprised when you change your mind about that.”

“I’m not going to change my mind. About any of it.” And that pronouncement seemed to satisfy Anders at least momentarily. They eased into their usual spots and drank their usual drinks and tried to decide on a movie.

Hours later Anders had fallen asleep and rolled over so his sling was caught awkwardly against his body and the sofa cushions. “Here,” Jake said gently, taking his hand, and helping to pull him free. He let Anders stretch out on his back, his head a pillow of warmth in Jake’s lap. The apartment felt quiet and solemn. He watched a basketball game without the sound and then flipped through the channels mindlessly until he drifted off himself. When he woke up, Anders was standing by the window, watching a confetti stream of snow fall from the sky.

“It’s snowing,” he said, and Jake went to stand beside him to look too. “I’m so tired, I should probably get going before it gets worse.” Anders moved to get his coat and keys and Jake reached out and caught Anders about the waist.

“Hey,” he whispered, making his mouth into the shape of an apology the best he could. “Stay with me.”

***

The start of the 2018 season was supposed to be a reset. They had beaten Toronto, thanks to Jake pulling it all together in Game 7, and then had fallen like a flat balloon against Tampa, too many brittle bones and weary hearts to put up much of a fight. He took the summer, worked hard, like they all did.

“My mom’s super disappointed you’re not coming here, _again,_ ” Anders said pointedly, when Jake pulled out of going down to Wisconsin for a week of sunning by the lake. His dad had him working with a local trainer, and one week could make all the difference.

China was a place he never imagined he’d go, but he played and scored with Matt and Charlie and Brandon when they split the camps, and Ryan Donato seemed like the star-in-waiting this year. High up on a parapet, he gamely waved until his fear of heights forced him down. At a huge shopping mall he picked out stuff for his mom and dad and sister, and a gold watch with a funny cat on it for Anders. It was fun to get to know guys like Millsy and Marchy better, even if he felt a distant pang when he saw Matt and Charlie trying each other’s bowls of noodles and talking in their own ancient, foreign language.

The season started the way he dreamed it would, with all of them there again. But despite the rehab and the healing, Anders’ shoulder still felt off, still creaked when he wound up for a shot. Jake stayed with him to work on shooting, faceoffs, lifting, whatever he needed. The production didn’t come though, and after Thanksgiving, Don Sweeney had Anders make the drive down 95 to Providence to improve his game.

“You’re amazing and you’re gonna pick it up and get back here in no time,” Jake tried to reassure him when Anders called to give him the news. “I’m waiting for you.” He believed it as he said it, and smiled anyway, even though no one could see, and slipped on his running shoes to take a quick trot around the North End, though the wet air clung to him and made him feel slow.

Maybe it was because he was without his own someone, but suddenly everybody seemed to have a someone. He never thought of their group as being paired off, and maybe that had been the mistake. People were easily classified - forwards and D, skill guys and energy guys, rookies and vets. But this wasn’t the usual dissection of roles and personalities Jake had seen in every locker room he had ever been a part of. Not just Krejci and Pasta, Bergy and Marchy, Jaro and Z. Not just a countrymen thing. Not just a college thing, or a guys who knew each other from way back thing.

Matt and Charlie sometimes took a few power play shifts together on the second unit, reading each other without hesitation and then sitting with their heads together on the bench, maybe breaking down the play, maybe making up new words in that language that he yearned to learn, Charlie watching Matt’s delicate face the whole time.

For the third day in a row, Heino and Kurls crept out after practice and Jake tapped Noelie with his stick. “Where’re they going?” he asked, curiosity getting the best of him at last.

Noel looked up and gave a half-hearted grin. “Not sure. Lunch, I think.”

“Did you know that Heino and Kurls go to lunch every day?” He plopped down next to Charlie in a chair in the lounge.

“No. Did you want to go to lunch?”

Jake huffed. “No! I mean yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Doesn’t it seem to you that everybody has their own, I don’t know, person? All of the sudden?”

“You came up with all that from two guys going to get lunch without you?” Charlie looked like he was going to laugh. Instead, he said, almost fondly, “You’re so weird Jake DeBrusk. I’ll be your person, okay?”

Jake brightened. “Yeah?”

“Sure.” Charlie reached over and ruffled his hair obnoxiously. “I’m about to get some lunch. You wanna? Or you want to think about being sad and alone some more?”

The lunch was salad and salmon with hard-boiled eggs at a bright place on the water, where people talked in hushed tones and the walls were muted sepia. Where no one ate grease-soaked fries under harsh fluorescent lights, above a grimy subway tile floor. He laughed with Charlie though, and walked home in the November-cold air, listening to a country playlist and chomping on a bagel from Dunks because he was still hungry.

***

Going to lunch together sometimes became their thing. Not always at home, or after practice, when Jake needed to do some laundry or wanted to experiment with smoothie-making, under the tutelage of Bergy. On the road though, when the usual lines of the team were most often blurred, they met up to explore and find an awesome place. Most of the time Charlie felt like the most comfortable person to him, except when he wasn’t and Jake couldn’t puzzle out why.

Jake wanted pizza, that felt like Philly to him. Cheesesteaks obviously would’ve been Philly too, but by his estimation it was too fucking cold to stand outside waiting for a greasy sandwich with neon cheese in the middle of December. After bypassing two pizza joints that sold it the way he liked, by the slice with the fancy types mixed in with the meat lovers so he didn’t have to draw attention to the fact that he occasionally liked his pizza with goat cheese and broccoli, Charlie tugged on his jacket and pointed to a small sushi place. It was casual, and dim. Their table was by the window though, that looked down on the street below, and there was a little candle that bounced shadows off the wall.

Jake ordered a dragon roll and edamame and an extra bowl of rice. “I definitely wish I was getting more looks on the power play for sure. But I think it’s going all right. I can’t complain.”

“No complaining here either.” Charlie settled back and turned his head to look at the street. A pink balloon, an escapee from a small child’s hand, floated up, drifted by. “What else do you want?”

“Oh, you know, I don’t really know. Maybe up my assist production? But we don’t necessarily have as much scoring coming off our line -”

“No,” Charlie interrupted. “I meant big picture. Not the Hart Trophy talk. In life. What do you want when this is all over.”

This line of questioning startled him. As a kid he had only ever dreamed one thing: hockey on an endless repeating loop. He had seen his parents, the way his dad had called when he was on a road trip, and the way his mom’s eyes went soft, like she was sad instead of happy, that he couldn’t figure out. He had seen the sheer moments of joy too, when his dad got a television gig for the first time after retirement, and how fiercely his parents clutched together, like nothing was better than sharing the best part of yourself that way. In the back of his brain, a piece of dust among the cobwebs, that meant something.

“To be happy, I guess.”

“Sure. So what is that?”

“Eh, you mean like girlfriend stuff?” He wasn’t sure why he said it like that.

“Girlfriend stuff?” Charlie raised his eyebrow over his water glass, ice cubes clinking.

“Well you know. Like when you say what else do I want. Relationship stuff.”

Charlie nodded, his face unreadable, obscured slightly under the flat brim of his snapback. He seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say next, and for once Jake didn’t swoop in to cut things off out of nervousness or force of habit. “Do you have anybody? That you’re seeing?”

It was an easy enough question. Harmless, something that two friends, or two should-be friends, could talk about without everything getting twisted up between them, without this strange weight bearing down. But lately it didn’t feel all that easy. “I don’t know,” Jake said honestly. “I have someone that I want to be seeing, I think. Or that I want to see me.”

Charlie didn’t look up. “I get that,” he said, like he knew exactly what Jake was trying to figure out, and maybe somehow he did.

The food came then, on sleek white platters, and Jake was glad for the distraction. A pigeon swooped in and landed on the brick ledge outside the window. “Do you think you could talk to Z and get him to show me how to feed pigeons out of my hand like that?” he asked, through a mouth full of salmon and rice and smashed avocado.

Charlie burst out laughing, his cheeks flushed like ripe apples. “Sure. That would be awesome,” he said, and everything shifted back to something simple again.

Snow was falling when they finally left, the flaky fluttery kind, when it was late in the day enough that everything looked bleak and lovely. As they walked two blocks over to catch an uber, Charlie banged his hand against Jake’s elbow and stared at the sky. It was so quiet.

“What?” Jake asked, starting to smile, not able to help it. There was gladness, when Charlie was around.

“Nothing.” Charlie shrugged. “You reminded me. It’s nice to hang out with you. You know how to make stuff better.”

In the car, their driver made minimal chit chat and had the radio tuned to Christmas music. The old-timey melody of Santa Baby drifted over them like a lullabye before a dream. “I love it,” Charlie confessed with his head back and his eyes closed, and Jake pretended, as hard as he ever had, that it meant something else.

***

The concussion sucked hard.

Just when he felt he was getting his game going, staking his claim again, to so many things, a puck hit the back of his head in a game against the Leafs and he was out of it. Going through protocol every day at the rink instead of doing the bike, or optional skate. Sitting in the dimmed living room, squinting at his phone and listening to music through his headphones instead of watching Game of Thrones. Hoping he would feel less dizzy, less nauseated, soon.

He wasn’t going to miss Charlie’s twenty-first bash though, that was a given. A twenty-first birthday party had to be epic. That was just the nature of the beast.

Anders showed up wearing a pair of dangerously tight jeans and an oversized puffy parka. “What the hell are you wearing?” he asked Jake.

Jake twirled, did a purposefully bad dance to make Anders smile. He liked the way his ass looked in his camo pants and he felt good and whole for the first time in a long time. “What are you talking about? I look fucking amazing in this. Admit it, Bjorkie!”

“Maybe,” said Anders, not giving away anything, and that was good enough for Jake for now.

No matter what time of day, or day of the week, or season of year, Boston had an energy to it that Jake loved. Nothing ever felt empty and no one ever felt truly alone. People took selfies by the lit-up trees in the Common and clutched steaming cups of hot chocolate while watching skaters near the frog pond, even if it was so cold that he could see Anders' breath as they made their way over to the Theater District. “Brandon went with his girlfriend. We could go too, just for fun,” he offered.

“Because you miss us skating together?”

Jake looked at his friend’s face, mottled with green and blue and purple from the Christmas lights. “It’s silly,” he said. “You’ll be back up with us soon, I know it. But there are these times, when I keep thinking you’ll be there. It’s always a weird surprise to me, when you’re not.”

They were both wearing gloves because it was freezing, but Anders tucked his arm through Jake’s as they walked. “Hey,” he said, pulling Jake closer as they got to Royale, where the line had already formed down the block. “I know you’re going through some shit. And with your concussion, you sure you’re up for this?”

“Hey,” he answered back, trying for all the confidence that he didn’t feel. “I was made for this.”

Anders grinned and said, “Okay. Let’s get you in there,” and handed the door guy two bills to let them in.

The party was going, full of energy and good nature by the time they were inside. Pasta had a pretty girl with long hair and a very short skirt with him. Brandon was skulking around the perimeter of their group, looking at his phone screen. Even Tuuks was there, dressed all in black and looking way cooler than any of the rest of them, sipping a watery colored cocktail by the bar.

Charlie looked delighted when they made it through the crowd and into the VIP area to greet him. “Holy shit, you two I did not expect to make it,” he yelled as he hugged both of them. “You gonna get cleared soon and come back and play with us?” he asked Jake, his hand still at the back of Jake’s neck.

“You know me, I’m trying!”

“I’m glad,” Charlie said with another squeeze before he turned to talk to Anders.

Someone ordered champagne and said it was courtesy of Marchy, and Jake had just one glass. The bubbles, fizzy at the top near his nose, tickled and made him sneeze. Crushed against him on a tiny velvet couch, Anders clinked his glass in celebration and took a long sip and Jake suddenly wished they were alone, back at the little skating rink under the lights and the trees. “I’m gonna go for a second,” he told Anders, and motioned towards the back where the restrooms were.

He sat on the toilet seat for three full minutes, trying to remember how to breathe. When he emerged, Matt was there by the sinks.

“What’s up, Jake DeBrusk. It’s nice to see you out.” Matt smiled, warm and friendly.

“I wasn’t gonna miss this if I could help it. Not Chucky’s big day.”

“I know he appreciates it.”

“Well what can I do. You can’t keep me away,” he claimed, all false bravado. “You know everyone loves him.”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, I do. You know,” he began, and Jake’s eyes went wide at the quiet, cautious way he said it, at the fact that Matt’s hand was now on his shoulder. “He told me about hanging out with you in Philly that day, and how much fun he had.”

“Yeah?” Jake tried to look natural. Matt would never be shitty. But this felt shitty. Like a message needed to be transmitted and Jake was about to get bad news.

He didn’t say anything else about Charlie though. Maybe he thought better of it and held back. Maybe there wasn’t actually anything to say. Instead Matt shook his head for a second, like he had to transport himself from another time or place. “It’s funny,” he mentioned, “I think about that goal you scored sometimes, in the series against the Leafs last year. Game 7. You were incredible. What a great moment. You were made for it.” And he squeezed Jake’s shoulder and slipped out the door, back with the strangers in the dark.

Jake used the dyson dryer on his hands for as long as be could stand it before checking his hair and vacating the bathroom too. Near the fire door there was a small alcove with partitions made of black plyboard, where a bank of payphones had been installed and then ripped out. Privacy often only existed in the form of anonymity in a club, where you could join the swell of the crowd and fade away in a grind of bodies, in the pulse of the beat.

Here Matt’s body bracketed Charlie’s against the wall, where the metal that once held the phone must’ve been mashed into Charlie’s back. He didn’t seem to care though, because his face was lit with a smile and his hands were comfortable on Matt’s slim waist, almost at Matt’s hips. In a fit of desolation Jake almost went to them, to wrap them both in a big hug, to feign drunkenness and oblivion, to make this stolen moment of theirs his as well. He didn’t though, just turned and crept away, wanting to miss whatever was about to happen next.

Back at the bar everything was too hot and shiny. He had to squint to scan the crowd for Anders, but could only see a blur. If it was the concussion then he should probably leave soon. But that would have been defeat of the worst kind, the kind that takes a truly happy, plucky, positive kid and breaks him on his best night. The injury wasn’t going to be the end of him, he was damn sure of that, and neither was the confirmation that his friend Matt was the person that his friend Charlie was thinking about that day under a snowy sky in Philadelphia _._

The bartender, who was cute on his own, nodded at him and plunked down two shots when he signalled.

Anders was at his side. “You all right?”

“Perfect,” he answered, with bite in his voice and in his eyes. He pushed the shot towards Anders, and then took it gingerly in between his thumb and forefinger when Anders shook his head. “I feel like dancing,” he declared, “so baby, let’s dance.” He knocked back the golden vial of tequila, let the burn bloom in his throat.

Anders laughed then, and allowed himself be pulled out into the crowd of people who were shaking like one giant mass. Under the quivering lights, with his arm slung easily around Anders’ neck and Anders’ fingers on the tissuey fabric of his shirt, they moved together to the bone-deep ache of some old school hip hop song, and he forgot about the twosome, locked in an embrace in the shadows, like they might disappear if he blinked.

“All better now?” Anders asked, lips by his ear, his smooth cheek a touch of warmth against Jake’s. This was solid, the one satisfying constant all night, so Jake kissed him quickly.

He smiled a smile that hurt somewhere, and closed his eyes, hoping to melt away. “I’m beautiful, baby,” he breathed, and in that moment he meant it.

When he opened his eyes, Charlie and Matt were back with the group now, and since everyone else was drunk enough from the champagne, Wags started passing around a bucket full of Bud Light ponies. Through the throng he caught Charlie watching him, maybe in the same way he had done earlier outside the bathroom. But it couldn’t be exactly the same though, since Charlie had his arm around Matt’s waist, and had a look on his face like he finally understood something.

Jake put his head back on Anders’ shoulder and squeezed tight and hoped it would all be less painful in the morning.

***

The next part stung.

The goals were still there. The fight, the effort, still there, or at least he thought. In Hershey, Anders got slammed into the boards and Jake couldn’t see him before the team and their families were going to the plane to take them to the state of Indiana. The Winter Classic, at Notre Dame, was where Anders was supposed to lead them at his alma mater. Or at least be a part of it. But Bruce was adamant with the media that he wouldn’t be calling up Anders just to make a fairytale storyline happen. Those other guys who worked hard, who deserved a hell of a look, they weren’t going to be pushed out just for a sentimental daydream.

“Who am I gonna get to show me the best diner in South Bend?” he lamented when he called Anders to say goodbye. He stuffed a bunch of balled up socks into his duffel bag and searched behind the couch for his headphones.

“I like Jeannie’s. Angelo’s is also good. You can take D-Man or Heino. They’ll definitely be up for it.”

In a burst of affection Jake declared, “I’m gonna ask for your locker. That’d be cool right?”

Anders was quiet for a beat. “Jake,” he said, his voice low. “That is truly...adorable. You guys’ll probably practice at the stadium though.”

Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He hated to be stymied when he had a goal in mind though. “Well then I’m gonna do a tour of the hockey rink and ask someone to show it to me. I’m gonna say ‘I need to see the locker of Hobey Baker finalist Anders Bjork.’ And I’m gonna get a picture of me in front of it and send it to you. So be ready for that.”

“Okay,” Anders answered, and Jake was pretty sure he was smiling now. “That sounds amazing. I can’t wait.”

“Do you feel better?”

“You know I do.”

“Then mission accomplished,” he said, and when he ended the call, he felt easier in his bones than before.

***

Nothing hurt worse than when he got called out publicly for not meeting expectations. Bruce Cassidy bitched him out in the media, in front of reporters. He put his head down at practice and stayed on the ice longer to work on shooting. David Backes, who had the incredible talent of never being awkward for a single second, mumbled his way through a little speech about how the team depended on him and that’s all this was.

“We know you’re a good player. A real good kid. So that’s what we expect,” he assured, and Jake nodded, did the smile and the eager-to-please good Canadian boy act and tried not to be mortified.

“It’ll get better.” Backes put his hand on Jake’s back, as they walked together to the Warrior Ice Arena garage.

Half an hour later he was home, sulking on the couch, watching NHL Network with a glower. Anders showed up ten minutes after that and tossed the telltale brown bag of McDonalds at his head. He caught it and managed not to squish the two cheeseburgers, his go-to meal. The fries toppled all over his lap though, the salt speckling his black sweatpants..

“My favorite.” He munched on a fry and scooped the rest back in the bag.

“I know.” Anders smiled and squeezed his shoulder as he sat down next to Jake. “Figured you might need some Mickey D’s therapy.”

Jake sighed. “Dude, I feel like shit. Like I let everybody down and I’m not even sure how or why.”

“It’s not your fault. But when you’re as good as you are, the bar just keeps getting higher and higher. You know how this town likes to crucify some kid with potential.”

“It’s not fair though.”

“Of course not.” Anders moved closer and knocked his right shoulder, his good shoulder, against Jake’s. “You’re so good. You’re gonna get it figured out.”

Jake blew out a long breath and glanced at his friend. “Right now I just don’t want to feel like the biggest fuckup the Bruins have ever seen.”

“You’re not,” Anders promised, sliding his hand along Jake’s thigh. “Not by a long shot.”

And then they were kissing, in a way that they had never kissed before, at least as far as Jake remembered. Now though, there was so much heat. So much anguish in just a kiss. Anders was in his lap, cradling the back of his neck with his free hand. His thumb brushed against Jake’s lower lip and Jake caught it between his teeth and sucked. That changed things too, because Anders started to kiss Jake’s throat and then his stomach and then down to the bulge in his sweatpants where his dick was leaking.

“Shit,” he whispered as he watched Anders peel back his briefs and swallow him down. With his head against the arm of the sofa, he closed his eyes, and reached down to spread his legs wider, to get the angle a little better.

“Bjorkie,” he managed to say, catching Anders' silky earlobe between his finger and stroking it until Anders pulled off.  He dared to look down and saw Anders' wet, red mouth. “You’re so gorgeous,” he sighed, totally awed. “I’m gonna come, it feels too good.”

“Do it,” Anders said, and Jake fucked into the tight wet heat of his hand once, twice, and then he was coming hard.

He wanted to reciprocate, or at least say he would reciprocate. But Anders just used the McDonalds napkins to wipe up, crawled between Jake’s thighs, and rested his head on Jake’s stomach, drawing little patterns across the soft skin there.

Finally Anders broke their silence by saying, “Hey. I wanted to tell you. I’m thinking of getting out of here for a little bit.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake tried to lift his head up, but couldn’t do it without shifting positions and knocking Anders away, and that was definitely not what he wanted.

“I can’t even start rehabbing until June. I can’t play for the PBruins, let alone the actual Bruins. The only thing I’m playing is Fortnite, and hoping to hang out with you when you get two seconds free,” Anders told him, and he neatly tied Jake’s drawstring of his sweatpants into a bow and patted it, like he was proud of himself.

“I definitely wish I could hang out with you more too. But I’m literally getting my ass kicked by Butch and Joe Sacco every day. And god, I do not want to have to get ‘the talk’ again by Backes.” He pulled off the Pats beanie that Anders had on and ran his hand through the unruly hair. “Am I being a total asshole?”

The heater in Jake’s apartment rumbled on, and Anders grabbed the quilt that had fallen to the floor and pulled it over them. “Not everyone is complaining about you. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.” Anders jiggled his knee lightly. “I need something for me right now. Which is why I think I’m gonna go back to Notre Dame for this semester.”

“You’re kidding.” Now Jake tried to sit up. “You can’t play college hockey. Why would you want to leave Boston?”

Anders insisted, “This isn’t about hockey, Jake. Some things aren’t always about hockey. I’m doing this because I need to think about those other things.”

Jake knew it was sort of a lie. Or a justification. Everything was always about hockey in the end, even needing to do something other than play hockey. “What  other things do you need to think about?” he asked, a stubborn streak running through his entire body.

“Look. You have this clear vision of the future, and I know it includes me, which is really really nice. But I’m not like you. I’m not like Chuck. You guys are the future of the franchise.”

“You too,” Jake insisted, gripping Anders' hand. “You are too.”

“It felt like that. I liked it when it felt like that.”

“You sound like you’re giving up. Dude I am not going to let you give up.”

“Okay,” Anders agreed. His smile was gentle, like his voice, and Jake wanted to cry, he wanted to fucking sob as Anders said, “Don’t give up on me yet.”

His dad was one of the ultimate tough guys. Someone who delivered jolts and shocks to someone’s chest, someone’s face, night in, night out. The first time in his life that he saw his father cry was on a video eighteen months ago, when he scored his first goal in his first game. That kind of guy, the kind who protected his team and himself, but never gave his heart away, wasn’t the guy Jake wanted to be anymore.

Maybe it was stupid to cry. But he did, over a dream that he wasn’t even sure was his own.

***

When the Bruins took at least a point in every game in February and half of March, it was like that winning streak montage in Moneyball. Despite his struggles, whether real or created, something special was happening and he was in it. He ran an extra mile on the treadmill, and some evenings, when the city became shuttered and intimate, he did his route from the Garden around the wharf, where the deck lights from the boats glittered against the water, just to soak up Boston.

His dad called and offered his thoughts on Jake’s net front play, with the general canned sports analysis that he had come to rehash to the media too. “I know things are tough sometimes. You’re doing the best you can. You’ve just got to keep your head down, listen to the coaches, and go to work.”

Jake poured himself a glass of water and investigated the contents of his mostly empty fridge. “That’s definitely what I’m going to do,” he resolved. The whole thing was so tiring lately. The hyped up bullshit and doubters and haters tweeting to drop him down a line or fucking bench him and let him see how he likes it from up in the rafters, call up somebody from Providence who deserves a shot.

“You good, bud?” his dad asked, and Jake didn’t know how to answer because he had been staring at a pack of string cheese and was still holding the refrigerator door open. His dad deviated from the script and said quietly, “You’re so lucky, you know. I know you know it because this was always your dream, and it’s happening and it’s amazing.”

“It is amazing,” he parroted back.

His dad, the hulking brute of a player, who knew when to ask Jake for quicker sprints and when to bring him a bag of McDonalds after another late summer afternoon was spent in a workout, was tender with his advice now. “But there’s so much that makes it all worth it. I remember how happy I’d be, to get to come home at the end of it all. To see your mom and you and your sister. I want you to be that happy. For hockey, and for everything that comes after.”

It seemed so easy to learn that, to know it. The living room was an explosion of shoes and hats and random blankets and water glasses, so he tidied up and returned a bunch of things to the kitchen and the hall closet. He hummed along to a song playing from his speakers while he showered and gave up on another netflix show about half way into it. His phone pinged with a text from Anders, a picture of him with his arms raised above his head in a Touchdown Jesus pose and he automatically swiped up to save it to his phone.

 _Let's roadtrip there this summer when i come visit you,_ he typed out and pressed the arrow to send. And he added, just to be clear, _But for now come home soon._

***

The team was pushing, and of course they couldn’t catch Tampa, who was laying down the most epic of seasons. But home ice was still up for grabs, seeding was still TBD, and other teams saw the Bruins as a block in their own road to the playoffs. Matt got injured in Pittsburgh, and they started a little losing jaunt, everybody was anxious about the x-ray results and the stagnated offense and the loss of points.

There hadn’t been any lunches in a while either, or not since that one in Philadelphia before Christmas and the birthday debacle and Jake’s mini-crisis. He caught up with Charlie in the lounge on their off day after the three straight road losses, working on a word search from a magazine he had taken from the plane, which made Jake smile.

“We good?” he asked, taking the stool across from Charlie.

Charlie looked confused. “Yeah?”

“We haven’t gone to lunch in a while. And you said you were gonna be my hang.” He tried to say it lightly.

“No, you’re right. Let’s go soon.” Charlie nodded at him, half-heartedly. “I guess I just haven’t felt like hanging out a ton lately. Everything seems so important right now. Like one wrong step and you’re gonna get injured, or benched on the power play.” He laughed at himself. “I’m psyching myself out.”

Jake put his hand on Charlie’s arm. “I play those games in my head all the time too. It’s easy to promise yourself stuff. If I go hard for one more shift, that could be the difference maker. I’m gonna do ten more leg lifts today, because that’s going to change things. I’m not sure it does, but it helps me feel better. I feel like I can help us win.

“Sure. Definitely,” Charlie said, looking down at Jake’s hand on his arm. “What about after the winning?”

Jake stared. The worry, and the uncertainty, were so familiar that it could’ve been him saying the words, if he dared, outloud. But he never had, never did. “Then I think it’s, you know, happiness. Whatever -”and here he stopped himself midcourse and added, “or whoever that is.”

The moment seemed endless when Charlie didn't answer and Jake was pretty sure he had fucked something else up again. Backes and Brando and Wags all drifted in to watch tv after their workouts and the place was filled with the laughter and all the sounds that were them, their team, their life. Out the windows, the sky changed to lavender in the early twilight.

He and Charlie were both the Bruins’ fourteenth pick in consecutive years. In the scheme of things it mattered little where you went in the draft, or so everyone always said. But he had always liked to imagine, in a world of myth-making and media legends, that after they’d solidified their places in Bruins history, they might be talked about like that. Like it was important to be fourteenth together. Like his dream couldn’t happen unless it was shared. It was stupid, and he shouldn't have, but he thought about it all the time.

But instead, on the ice in Agganis Arena in front of cheering college students, or under the twinkling fairy lights that made everything appear perfect and impermanent, in a dorm that looked out over the frigid waters of the Charles River, down on the endless drag of cars headed to the Mass Pike, just the two of them, Charlie and Matt forged something changeless. Those promises didn’t have to do with how many leg lifts or even making it to the conference finals. They were holding on tight to something now.

When Jake smiled this time there wasn’t the same longing or hurt behind it. “I think you’ve got that figured out pretty well, right?” he encouraged. “I don’t think there’s much for you to lose.”

Charlie finally looked up then and brightened into that smile that Jake still probably loved, but didn’t worship in the same way anymore. “Yeah. You too, right?” They hugged when Jake got up to leave, and Charlie held on for a minute, probably to make a point that Jake should’ve understood a long time ago. “We should all hang out soon. Maybe get some cheesecake,” Charlie joked, and his eyes were twinkly again.

Jake walked to his car, parked out on the street, and instead of calling Anders, he set his random spotify playlist on shuffle. The evening was breaking and the lights were coming on across the city. He drove, and thought about his mom, who knew that the best parts of life weren’t just for yourself. And his dad, who after all the games and all the fights and all the fucking _effort,_ knew what made things worth it.

They were so close. And Charlie still made him dream of winning.

Anders made him dream of everything after.

***

He got two bags of McDonalds from the drive through window and went immediately to Anders' place. “Hi,” he said, falling into Anders' good shoulder. “Thank god you’re actually home. This day has been weird.”

“Weird bad?”

“I’m not sure.” He started tugging down the zipper of Anders’ hoodie before he even knew what he was doing. “Not good or bad. Just weird. I was talking with Chuck. Trying to help him feel better about Gryz and the injury and just all the doubt that’s creeping into his game and everything. You know.”

Anders pushed off the hoodie and gingerly removed his sling. “Sure. But you know that’s not your job.”

“Well, as a teammate -” he began.

“It’s really not,” Anders reminded him, and surged forward to kiss him. Jake got lost for a moment, in the press of Anders’ mouth and the incredible warmth of his tongue.

“Yeah?” Jake asked as he eased Anders’ shirt over his head, cognizant of the shoulder and how warm Anders’ body was against him. “I’m just gonna, you know, go for it.” And he sank to his knees, yanking down track pants and clawing off the softest heathered boxer briefs, until he had his face against the smooth underside of Anders’ hard dick. He breathed in and licked from the bottom to the tip.

Anders sighed and said, “You look just like you did that day with the ice cream. I was so fucking annoyed with you about Chuck, and then you went and did that and I wanted you so fucking much.”

“Let me make it up to you then.” Jake wasn’t good at sexy talk, but he was good at Anders so he wasn’t surprised when Anders’ eyes went wide. He pushed Anders back towards the bedroom until their knees buckled against the side of the bed and they crashed into it. He used his hand on Anders’ dick until Anders started moaning and then replaced it with his mouth, littering kisses up and down until Anders lifted his hips off the bed and came half on Jake’s face and half all over his own stomach. Jake held himself up over Anders, with his knees and his shaking arm, and jerked himself off fast and tight until he was coming in his own pants. “Fuck,” he whispered as he rode out his orgasm and Anders stretched up to kiss his jaw.

“By the way you’re forgiven,” Anders called out, as Jake went to the bathroom to find a towel. He gave Anders the middle finger as he returned and it felt so good to laugh again.

“Hey,” he said, after discarding his tshirt and jeans and crawling into bed and Anders turned over and blinked at him. “I wanted you too, from the first time I saw you. I shouldn’t have let things get all weird and confusing because of hockey. I wanted you.”

Anders snaked his bare foot around Jake’s ankle, like he used to do. “You can have me,” he replied. “With or without the hockey.”

And in his entire life Jake had never heard anything so incredible and so romantic, he kissed the molasses-colored birthmark on Anders’ back and explored the protrusion of bones, of ribs and hips, like anchors sunk beneath the skin, and held on tight.

***

The next day wasn’t any different than the other mornings in the dead of New England’s shoulder season, when the new life of so-called spring struggled to make an appearance amongst the chill and the frost. People were out, though. Life was happening, the way it always did in Boston, and Jake felt like something great, be it a new season for the Sox, or the playoffs for the Bruins, or his relationship, was about to begin.

They walked to the Common with their laced-up spare pair of skates dangling from their shoulders, like they were kids going to the neighborhood pond to play pickup. He didn’t know if Anders had done that, up in Mequon, Wisconsin, but maybe he would ask when they were gliding across the ice together, or when they were curled into each other on the sofa later. Jake knelt down and tied Anders' skates for him, since it was still difficult for him to do stuff with the shoulder sling.

“If only the guys could see this now,” Anders joked. “Being laced up by Jake DeBrusk. Dream come true.”

Jake squinted and grinned in the weak sunlight. “Show them,” he said. “I’d like it.”

Anders took a picture then and let Jake help him up so they could skate. After a turn or two around the rink where they raced each other as best and as carefully as they could, Jake reached out to grab Anders’ hand.

“Hey,” he said. “What do they call the guy who always cheers up the guy who cheers up everybody else?”

Anders let go and spun around to look at him, long and cool. “The boyfriend, I think,” he suggested, carefully and purposefully.

Jake paused and thought about how to answer. He had screwed up enough stuff, and really didn’t want to now, when he was being given this unexpected chance, like the D breaking down, the puck on his stick, and a wide open net in front of him.  

“Yeah,” he agreed, the sun finally fully on his face, like a gift for the day. “I think you’re right.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here is that video where [Anders, Jake, Charlie, and Brandon played NHL18 together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jc5OBNxayWg).
> 
> Update: I knew there was a longer version of the video game playing scene (featuring a lot of giggling and touching between Anders and Jake)! It's [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lW6kGOJtKOY), from Season 5, Episode 3 of Behind the B. This episode also contains a lot of the moments featured early in the fic, including Jake's and Charlie's first goals on opening night 2017, and Anders' first goal on the road trip. And some cute moments between Anders and Jake when they are seat buddies on the plane.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let's go Bruins!


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